


the bone that breaks

by aldonza



Series: The Little Sultana's Favourite Pastime [4]
Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms
Genre: Actually this exceeds whump, Beating, Blood and Injury, Blood and Violence, Depression, Gen, Heavy Angst, Hurt Erik (Phantom of the Opera), Hurt No Comfort, Major Character Injury, Mob Violence, Permanent Injury, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Relationship, Pre-Slash, Public Humiliation, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Suicide Attempt, Torture, Whump, animal death (but very brief- one is livestock and the other animal will be OK, rosy hours
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-21
Updated: 2020-03-21
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:20:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23243137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aldonza/pseuds/aldonza
Summary: The little Sultana’s latest amusement leaves Erik in critical condition. And the Daroga can no longer pretend he doesn't care.Sequel to "Abed"
Relationships: Darius & The Persian, Erik | Phantom of the Opera/The Persian, Erik/PAIN - Relationship
Series: The Little Sultana's Favourite Pastime [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1574986
Comments: 8
Kudos: 19





	the bone that breaks

**Author's Note:**

> Here it is, the second (or first) most violent story in this series, the one where Erik hits rock bottom. 
> 
> Warnings: all in the tags- suicide ideation, self-harm, self-hatred, PTSD, public humiliation, public torture, heavy injury/violence, some animal harm (but it lives!), hurt no comfort (but I do promise comfort in a future story)

Darius was everything Abed was not. He was a man equal to Nadir’s years, if not more, and where Abed had been a bundle of nerves and youth, Darius was every bit as prim and stern. If Abed was tactless, then Darius was the pinnacle of tact. He was impeccable, unwilling to speak unless spoken to and as graceful as a bending creek. He was fluent in Turkish and his French was near flawless, perhaps better than Nadir’s own. Darius was the type of man Nadir had wanted- and needed- from the very start.

Instead, he had hired a boy who much too often tripped over his own feet. 

Darius- perfect Darius- was only a ghost of Abed, a reminder that there would be no more accidents in the kitchen or nervous cries of “Sorry, Master!” And now Nadir only wished his boy could come back.

But such a thing was impossible. No amount of money or prayer could return Abed. 

And Nadir was ashamed to admit that he hated Darius through no fault of the man’s own. He hated the servant for his silence, for being so learned and elegant and not the least bit clumsy. He hated him for not being Abed. But without Darius, the daroga knew he would probably have died.

“Master, your dinner,” Darius would say each night, a tray of warm food in his hands.

He would leave supper at the master’s door and return for it come dawn. He did the same for each meal, and however little Nadir ate, at least he knew he’d taken food. Darius brought him water at intervals and reminded him to sleep and wake. If not for the servant’s timely words, Nadir was unsure if he would remember the difference between day and night.

He lost count of how much sleep he’d lost and the hours he wasted wandering about Tehran. More often than not, Nadir found himself sitting at home, blankly trying to stay alive. He had not felt this way since he was sixteen (since his first arrest, his first murder) and this dull melancholy threatened to drown the world out. He prayed when he could, the words hollow in his head. And at night (or perhaps day), as he lay awake, he would touch his ribs, their jutting shape a sign that he’d lost weight.

Some weeks after the funeral, Kaveh had paid him a visit with his wife. Nadir could not recall what they said, but he hated their looks of pity. And yet he relished in their pity, as if he had nothing else to hold onto, no other means of warmth to hug. 

“Get some rest, cousin,” Kaveh told him in a rare moment of tenderness, “you look terrible.”

Nadir supposed he did. Dark bags circled his eyes and he lacked the energy to trim his beard. A bush of black lay around angled cheeks and he could not recall the last time he changed his shirt. Darius’ presence had helped- if only by so much- for at least he forced the master into clean clothes each day and insisted he eat.

“Daroga, are you ill?” the vizier once asked, pity for once in his eyes.

Nadir had not replied. Or perhaps he did. He insulted the man somehow and the Shah sent him away. The court pitied him more than it sympathized, he knew, and he hated its attendants all the more. He did not deserve pity. He was but a loyal dog that could not even protect a boy of seventeen. Perhaps it was time he resigned, but he could not think of a man to replace himself. And he could not guarantee his replacement would not meet the same fate as Abed.

Had Abed still been in his home, the servant would think of ways to cheer him up. He would brew fresh tea and try to speak to the daroga. Perhaps he’d ask, “Master, do you want to hear what I learned today?” And proceed with some court gossip Nadir never cared for.

But only Darius remained. And Darius did not speak unless spoken to. The silence, then, was deafening. Perhaps if _he_ was there-

No, Nadir had not seen Erik since the funeral and he did not wish to see him again. When he looked at Erik, he would remember his servant and all that followed. He would remember the magician ignoring his warnings and his devotion to that imp of a Sultana. He lacked the energy to hate Erik. In truth, he knew he did not blame the magician-- his only crime was being as big a fool as Nadir.

His chest clenched at the thought of that Frenchman and the memories they once shared. But Abed had been a part of those blessed moments and- without him- nothing held them together save a gaping wound. Nadir was sure Erik felt the same. It had been Nadir who brought him to Persia and Nadir who let him into the Sultana’s hands. Yes, it was best that they left each other alone.

They brought unto one another nothing but pain. 

* * *

She had kept him in the attic. There, his ugliness (and his wickedness) could not spread. Erik remembered pressing his masked face to its boarded window, envious of the bird nest outside. He huddled by himself in winter and hummed when he had nothing else to do among the dust and trappings of that house. He used to dream that his mother would climb the stairs and let him out, that she would press a kiss to his brow and bring him- with her- into the glowing sun. Then he awoke in tears, the sting of welts on his back, and his chest burning with the realization that he would never be loved. And then- when that family of birds flew away, never to return- the child’s dreams shattered for good.

Except they had not. Erik knew- however shameful it was to say- that he clung onto those hopes as he grew. He once thought that should he prove himself as worthy as any other member of the human race, he would find his spot among mankind. If not love, at least acceptance. And if not from them, at least from himself.

But he had never hated anyone more than himself. His mother had been right. They had all been right. The monster should never have been allowed to leave her attic, never been allowed to leave its cage, never been allowed to breathe its first breath.

Then, perhaps, a boy named Abed could have become a man.

Erik no longer saw Norrson at each turn. He saw Abed. He knew it a mirage but he’d reach all the same, only for the boy to become a shadow and no more. Alone, he wept until he had no tears left. He cried for Abed and all the men he’d killed. His hands- scarred and trembling and thin as death- were stained with Abed’s blood, and he could not look upon them without thinking of wringing his own throat.

He wanted to squeeze the breath out and snap that neck. 

Then the English voice would speak- _“you should have died in Mohammerah.”_

It was right as well. That fool of a daroga should have left him be. Had he died, Abed would have lived. Had he died, countless more men would have lived. Perhaps in memory (or nightmare), he recalled their faces as he snapped his punjab- blank and scared, Abed’s visage atop in each head. The boy died in all his dreams. It never mattered how much Abed begged or wept. Erik killed him because he could.

_“You should have died in Mohammerah.”_

And yet he continued his duties in court, still played tricks for the Shah and his wife. He still basked in their praise, for he was too pathetic to refuse. Then he would leave and retch, sickened to the core by the sight of the Sultana’s lovely smile. The little Sultana, once so dear to him, was the last person he wished to see. In her, he saw Abed’s dying face, stained with blood and bruise. And in her laugh, he remembered her giggles as the boy fell.

Had he laughed along? Had he laughed when all those other men died? Had he laughed as Abed’s mother pounded at his waist? As she cried to the heavens and cursed him to hell? Had he laughed as a thousand more families wept for their dead sons?

_“You should have died in Mohammerah.”_

Abed had been his friend. Abed had tended him in bed, had spoken to him as any other man, had held his hands and told him not to fear in the dark. He had made him supper and stolen him wine. Abed had been the cleanest and brightest soul he’d ever met. And Erik had repaid him by-

_“You should have died in Mohammerah.”_

He was a monster through and through. And now he understood what it meant to waste away. Left to his devices- for the daroga and his new servant never called upon him (and it was just as well)- Erik sat for hours on end, scratching at veins until they bled and wondering where he had failed. The cats nestled by his leg, but Erik lacked the will to stroke their fur. Bored, they left. He could not recollect the last time he’d eaten or slept (perhaps the day Abed died or the night before). He clutched his head and heaved, images of Abed’s smile appearing behind closed eyes. Erik should have said no, he should have refused the Shah from the very start-

But he was a selfish creature, too greedy to know its place and too eager to please its masters. No doubt the daroga knew too. He had not seen Nadir since the funeral nor did he mind. He understood. The daroga had been his friend as well, and Erik had betrayed him, just as he had betrayed Abed, for there was little else a monster could do. 

_“You should have died in Mohammerah.”_

In his washroom, Erik ripped the mask off, sickened by the sight before him. He hated the reaper’s face. He watched those amber eyes morph into the Sultana’s light brown, then Norrson’s gray, and at last, Abed’s umber. _“It’s all right, I’m here,”_ the mirror said.

Behind Abed, Norrson’s ghost whispered, _“You should have died in Mohammerah.”_

And as the little Sultana laughed, the crowd of the circus closing in, Erik clutched the sink and rammed his head against the glass. His face smashed into the mirror, again and again until blood turned his teary vision pink. 

“Erik,” he said, _“_ Erik should have died in Mohammerah.”

* * *

She had given him an ultimatum and Erik had failed her. The Sultana could not have cared less for that weak servant, but she had enjoyed Erik’s devastation upon his death-- it was a fitting punishment for the choice he made. She knew- from the moment he saw Abed- that Erik would choose the boy over her. It was a sickly, human choice that set her on edge. It was not the reaction she wanted.

But what had she wanted? Since the body was removed, she agonized over her next steps, for she’d wanted to prove Erik and herself one and the same. Her magician had grown distant, his bloodlust waning, and it did not sit well with her. He belonged to her and that lust was hers to decide.

Had you wanted to put him in his place? To remind him that she owned him, yes.

Had you wanted to see if he could grieve? There was a titillating pleasure in seeing him break, yes.

Or did you simply want him to dote on none but you? Not the Shah or his daroga, and certainly not that gangly youth. 

She bit her lip as she thought. Yes, a part of her- deep within- had envied that servant, had envied Erik’s cries for his name. And now that he was gone, she felt no pleasure. She only felt a burning desire to rein her crow back in. She wanted to tear his feathers out and break each wing, bind his beak and rip his throat, and leave him begging for her healing kisses. He had not begged for forgiveness, had yet to admit that he’d rather condemn her to death than the daroga’s little servant.

If not for her, Erik would never have set foot in court. If not for her, he would never have gained the Shah’s favor. If not for her, he would never have known his worth. If not for her, he’d still be nothing but a traveling freak. And now he had the gall to cower from her gaze, the gall to believe them both guilty of some crime. 

Guilt had never plagued his yellow eyes before. And she was not about to let it start now.

“Tomorrow,” she told him, sick of seeing him conjure the same old tricks, “an execution happens at noon. I wish to see a new form of death. I’ve missed your art.”

He looked at her, a hint of pleading upon his gaze. Then he bowed, and meekly, said, “Thy wish is my command.”

* * *

_“You should have died in Mohammerah.”_

Erik stood within the chamber of mirrors, Norrson by his side, the Englishman a blurred ghost of gray. He wandered the glassy expanse, warmed by the false sun upon his skin. Scars stretched and tore as Norrson groped at his flesh- or what little of it remained. Erik laughed, Norrson’s face in each mirror. Then it was Abed in front, grinning heartily back.

At the iron tree, Erik reached for the noose. He held it between his fingers, savoring the texture of rope. He still could not refuse the little Sultana. Even now, he remained in her thrall. As the shame burned, he wound the rope around his neck. A simple snap and he would be gone, the trapdoor lover no more than a nightmare past.

Perhaps the daroga could chop off his head next and cut it into pieces, one part for each family that he owed. He remembered Norrson’s fingers against his throat, and long before, another man choking the air out as a crowd looked on, eager to see the face of the Living Corpse. He could succeed where they had failed.

He pulled the rope.

_“You should have died in Mohammerah.”_

And let go. Erik threw the noose as far as it could go. He removed his mask and touched his bandaged brow, the cuts still smarting upon his face. Shuddering, he left the chamber and sealed the mirror back in. Now there could be no entering or exiting without his command. He moved back through the passage, and one way or another, found himself in the Sultana’s rose garden.

“Thy wish is my command,” he whispered, trailing a palm over the nearest rose, its petals catching on his fingertips.

He stared at the thorns behind, so eager to snag skin. Erik recalled the sunsets spent before the garden, the little Sultana bubbling with laughter at his every word. She had been the sun then, and he- for once- felt less like dust and more like one of those red blossoms, a rose with as much right to lie in morning light as any other. 

He had been wrong.

Erik removed his hand, staring at a trace of white gauze around his wrist. He would never have such a right. He did not deserve it. And for once, he knew it was not because of his face. It was because of who he was. He was a murderer, a monster who had laughed as men- each one, a living being of flesh and blood- died at his hand. 

He wondered how the greenhouse fared. He hadn’t tended it since Abed passed. Had anyone else bothered to enter it again? If he did so now- he knew- he would again hear Abed’s warm voice and recall the boy’s smile. Then he would recall all that followed. 

And heart split open, he left the garden, unsure where to go next. He did not know when the Shah would require the angel of death again. He did not know when the physician would deem him fit to fight. He only knew the Sultana wanted him to kill again, and a creature like him was good for nothing else.

“Erik,” Abed said, his green gaze soft, “it’s me.”

Erik saw the boy in front, almost flesh and blood in the light. He approached and remembered- Abed’s eyes were not green. 

He fell into the daroga’s arms.

And the next time he opened his eyes, Erik was lying on a familiar bed- not his own- and facing the ceiling of Nadir’s guest room. There was a man beside him, dark-eyed and neat to a fault, not a wrinkle upon his robe. 

“Darius?” he mumbled, recalling the name.

“I am,” the man replied, “how do you feel?”

How did he feel? He didn’t know. More coherent, at the very least. Darius did not wait for him to finish. When he next shut his eyes and opened his gaze, the physician was asking him to respond, unwilling to look him in the eye. Erik answered each question he asked, unsure if the words were leaving his mouth.

“When was the last time you had water? Fluids?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’ve lost weight.” The doctor eyed him up and down, careful to avoid his head. “I didn’t think it possible, magician.”

“Are you here to insult me or have you more to say?”

Ignoring the jab, the man spoke on. “When was the last time you ate? I told you to take meals regularly.”

Erik shrugged. “I had a walnut the other day.” Perhaps that was a lie. He did not remember the taste.

When he asked what was wrong with him- for that was the only way to get the man to leave- the physician attributed dehydration and lack of rest. Perhaps that was why Erik was so tired (yes, tired of death). 

Then the doctor picked up his wrist, flinching at the icy skin, and rolled up his sleeve. Something strange passed through his eyes (Disgust? Horror? Erik could not tell). Wrinkled hands pulled the pink dressings apart and revealed the scabbing indents underneath. 

“How did these come about?” the man asked.

“What do you think?”

“Glass.”

The physician did not elaborate. He applied salve to the wounds and did the same to the other arm. It was only when the man reached his face that Erik realized he had forgotten to replace the mask. He almost laughed then. The most important thing to cover, and he had- for once in his life- forgotten. How could he have neglected that visage? Was his soul now so much more twisted than his face?

“You’ll scar,” the physician told him, “but we can avoid infection.”

Could infection have killed him? Erik was almost disappointed that he’d been saved. The physician left, with a final order (warning) that he eat and rest. He would not report this to the Shah, perhaps a favor done out of pity. But monsters deserve no pity, Erik wanted to say.

Darius returned later with a plate of lamb and rice. Erik nibbled at bits of meat and swallowed a few grains, stomach unwilling to take food down. Then leaving the plate at the door’s foot, he exited the room. He found the daroga in the sitting room, Nadir absently flipping through the day’s newspaper. Upon his approach, the Persian glanced up, no change in his tired eyes.

“Are you well?” Nadir asked quietly.

Nadir himself did not look well, a sickly pallor about his face, and dark rings around his eyes. He looked thin and dirty. Like a man wasting away. And again, that stab of guilt plagued at Erik’s chest.

“I am.” The magician looked down

“Then leave.”

_You should have died in Mohammerah._

Nadir returned to his paper. Erik showed himself out, noticing the sky turn black ahead.

In his apartment, Erik rummaged for tools in his work room, settling on a box painted like Japanese ink. He opened the daroga’s gift and plucked out a piece of conte. He rolled a piece of paper across the floor, and then- feverishly- began to draw (plan) for the Sultana’s next wish. 

* * *

The daroga had not planned to see the Sultana’s newest amusement, but a part of him felt compelled to inspect regardless. As if he could somehow alleviate the weight of what was to come if he saw Erik’s contraption for himself. And Nadir would rather see it before the execution took place, and he- like so many others- was forced to look on. He knew several in attendance would send delegates in their place. The chief of police could not.

Darius had informed him of the Sultana’s new whim, one Erik was determined to see through. Something within Nadir bristled at that, a dread in his heart that gave way to boiling blood. Abed was dead. And Erik had not changed one bit.

He found Erik at the empty arena, the magician oblivious to his presence as he worked. Without the Sultana’s audience, the seats were empty, that dead air filled with nothing but whispers of ghosts and faded screams. And Nadir hated every inch of this accursed space.

Erik had refurbished the arena with wooden wheels at each corner. From each wheel, pointed spikes stretched out, sharpened at their tips and haphazardly spaced together. He carved out stakes along the ground, shaving splinters down with sandpaper and slicing off their heads at the height of a man’s chest. If Nadir fell from where he stood, he would plummet directly onto that forest of spikes.

And at the center of that wooden jungle, Erik adjusted a coffin of pulleys and rope. A dead lamb lay at his side, no doubt fresh from the palace kitchen. Then he turned, eyes impassive as he caught sight of Nadir.

“What are you doing, Erik?” the daroga asked, “what is this?”

“You’ll see,” the magician all but chirped.

His voice was light, so uncaring that Nadir felt his own teeth clench. Bile gathered at the back of his throat. Squaring his jaw, he watched as Erik lifted that lamb. He stretched a rope and the pulleys moved, each wheel rolling with. Erik placed the corpse on a moving spike, and as Nadir watched its dead eye, the wool came off, shredded by the bobbing stakes.

Blood came next, splattering Erik’s mask with a coat of red. As crimson seeped his collar, the machines pulled apart meat from bone, leaving unwanted skin behind. And when Nadir next blinked, a neatly cut pile of lamb lay in the open coffin, as if prepared by an expert butcher. 

“You plan to do this to a man?” Nadir said, feeling rather green.

Erik nodded. He knelt to pick up the slabs of meat, unfazed by the blood that dripped.

“What you said at his funeral, did it mean nothing at all?”

Erik approached him with the gathered slabs. He dropped them into Nadir’s reluctant arms. “Take these back to the kitchen.”

Nadir had smelled dead livestock before. The blood of a lamb was commonplace, but this time the odor left him nauseated, disgust and anger blending into one.

“Damn you! Answer me!”

Yellow eyes smiled, the look of a devil too far gone. “Relax, daroga. It will only be one more death.”

He wanted to strike the monster then, to knock that smile from its face, to hold it by the windpipe and roar- _Abed is dead! There is no such thing as one more death!_ \- but all Nadir did was cast him a cold glare and leave. He brought the lamb to the kitchen and spent the rest of the night smoking his pipe.

* * *

_“You should have died in Mohammerah,” Norrson whispered._

_“I know,” he replied._

* * *

When Nadir next observed the arena, it was with the Sultana’s crowd, handpicked favorites and the unfortunate groups who did not know how to refuse. The little Sultana sat atop her cushioned seat, the Shah beside her and the vizier attending both. Nadir made his way towards them, Darius at his heels. He felt a low thrum in his blood, a guilt that told him he could not stop what would come, could not save the next man from Erik’s hand (and the Sultana’s laugh). 

The vizier greeted him, but the Sultana paid him no mind. She appeared lost in thought, bright gaze upon the sharp scenery below, a strange look upon her features, as if she knew something the others did not. And that childish excitement did nothing but push at the daroga’s growing unease.

As Erik entered the killing stage, she called for a maid and whispered into the poor girl’s ear. The girl ran off, and seeing Erik, the Sultana clapped for her guards.

“Bring them out!” she said.

The Shah was silent, as if he too felt nothing save a morbid curiosity of what was to come. The first doors opened and two men rolled a curtained contraption in, the shape of a box that could at least fit a horse or two. The guards tossed the curtain away, and Nadir heard the crowd release a gasp.

A lion had not been in court for some years, at least in no greater capacity than as one of the Sultana’s pets. Now one stood at the end of a cage, legs tethered to the farmost bars. And cowering at the other end was the sickly wretch sentenced to death, his head already drenched in blood- likely from another poor lamb. The lion snarled, but did not move.

Erik watched, perhaps as taken aback as the audience looking down.

“What do you make of this, Erik?” the Sultana asked, “you seemed to be running out of ideas. I wanted to help, but it seems I underestimated you.”

She gestured at the forest of stakes. “I’d much rather see this man die at your hands than some mindless beast’s.”

Erik did not reply. He walked to the trembling man, the prisoner immediately scurrying from his gaze. Erik eyed him in silence for a good moment more. Then he turned to the Sultana, and bowing, said, “Let him go, your highness. I have much greater plans.”

He made his way to the coffin Nadir had seen the previous night. The girl returned, dropping a leather-bound book into the Sultana’s lap.

“Please elaborate, Erik,” the Sultana said, pure sugar on her tongue.

“I intend to break a man with this device- the butcher’s wheel- and I think your highness will be most pleased by the results. So you see, I’ve no use for that man there.”

“Fair enough.” She touched the book. “Then take your pick, Erik- who would you rather kill?”

Nadir wondered how many in attendance had blanched. The vizier had moved out of Erik’s line of sight, and if not for the event at hand, the daroga would certainly have laughed. A hush fell over when Erik’s gaze fixed on Nadir. But the daroga did not flinch. 

_Is this what you had planned from the start?_ He thought bitterly, _Ah, Erik, I should have known._

The magician looked to the Sultana next. He bowed once more.

“I’ve made my choice.”

She bit her lip, anticipation evident on that sweet face. “Who?”

Erik stepped back, heel bumping into the edge of the coffin’s foot, as if he would fit right in should he lie back.

“Myself.”

Nadir felt the breath leave him in a flush, that one word so sudden he almost swayed. And as the confusion and panic set in behind his freezing frame, he heard the Sultana force a laugh.

“I knew it’d come to this, Erik!” she cried, “but if you wish to play games, then I’ll let you have your fun.”

She called for the guards again, and when they pulled the doors back once more, a line of men- twenty or thirty more- piled in, each outfitted as a soldier under the Shah’s command. But Nadir could not recognize a single face.

Hopping to her feet, the Sultana said, “You kill him or I let them upon you. And don’t even think of taking your own life- I know you, Erik, you’re a soulless devil, so do not pretend to be anything else!”

The magician reached into his dark robe. A line of catgut came out, caught between his fingers. And he dropped it on the ground, a cloud of dust rising after. 

The Sultana grit her teeth, and sitting back down, opened the book in her hands. Nadir caught a glimpse of anatomy within- it was a medical journal. And below, Erik did not bother meeting the Sultana’s gaze. He’d thrown the punjab down and Nadir knew- he did not intend to fight back.

And if he did not fight back-

“I have a little game of my own to play,” the Sultana said. 

When the Shah moved to touch her, she dodged his grasp, determined to put the magician back in his place. The lion’s growl caught Nadir’s attention- it was restless and it was scared, neither a good sign.

“But should you kill that man as I ordered,” she continued, “then this can stop.”

“Thy wish is my command,” Erik replied, and Nadir had never heard him speak so hollowly.

The Sultana flicked a page. “These men know what you’ve done to their friends. And some of them know they’ll be back in prison if they disobey. You of all people should know what happens to those in prison.”

That was why the daroga could not find a familiar face. But the Sultana’s reasoning did not bode well, and like the others, he could only wait as she spoke next.

“Esophagus.” She read the page. “It connects the throat to the stomach. Quite long.”

Then she lifted her gaze, a cold eye turned on the faux soldiers below. A few men exchanged glances, as if confirming the order she’d made. One by one, they approached Erik, the magician creeping back from instinct, his spine pausing right in front of a wooden spike, its tip pressing the fabric in between.

The first man struck, daring to throw a fist, and perhaps to spite the Sultana, Erik dodged. The man’s knuckles sliced against the stakes behind. And that draw of first blood seemed to set fire to the group in front. Nadir watched, petrified, as a frenzy broke through the mob, for that was what it was.

There were no more hesitant steps and hits.

What he saw next was beastly desperation, a crowd of men each moving at once under the guise of a singular being- a shot of fire out for blood.

In circles, Erik evaded each attack, stepping in and out of that forest of stakes, space limited by his own design. The spikes tore at him, snagging on black cloth and shredding into skin beneath. Red ribbons soon appeared on his bare shoulder and back, a good chunk of robe ripped away by the sharpened points. 

But he did not fight back.

And Nadir suspected- knew- that Erik had no intention of leaving alive. As the realization sank in, he saw a fist smash the magician’s breastbone. Erik stumbled, more hands lunging at his throat and the center of his chest. 

“The esophagus,” Nadir repeated, his voice drowned out by the sound of the beating that followed.

They were aiming for one part of him. The Sultana’s plan connected in his mind. She meant to make them tear Erik apart, piece by piece. 

“Should I let the lion loose now?” the Sultana called to Erik, “are you tired of running yet?”

And again, Erik did not meet her eyes. He slipped through a tangle of spikes, the points shredding away more black. As more strips of skin showed, Nadir made out a bundle blossoming bruises along his ribs. 

“You don’t even know him!” she spat, “he’s nothing to you, Erik! This man would kill you if he had the chance!”

The man- whom Nadir had nearly forgotten- huddled in the lion’s cage, quaking at the Sultana’s words. What she said was true, and Nadir could see in those frightened eyes that he was willing to kill in the name of life. And fright, he saw, was what drove the rest of that crowd on. Fright and anger. What he too had dealt with until now.

Erik gasped, a stake tearing into his shoulder. He held a palm to the wound as the Sultana returned to her book.

“Liver.”

The magician failed to dodge the next strike. A fist caught him in the jaw and as he fell back- mask askew- two men clung to him from behind. In front, they pounded at his torso as he gagged, a mob of blows eager to rip his liver out. 

“Stomach.”

The blows moved, each man desperate to land a hit on the Sultana’s target. The sound was not unlike that of a cleaver upon meat. Nadir chanced a look at the Sultana, nails pressing into his palm when he saw that she was not even looking. Oblivious to Erik’s groans, she leafed to the next page.

“Right femur.”

When Erik next broke free, he staggered past another cluster of spikes, crying out when the shortest point tore a gash along his thigh, the others leaving a row of identical cuts upon his side. A stake pressed into his arm, and hissing, he stopped to pull himself out, a large red stain forming along the wooden tip. Then a man pulled him away, twisting his wounded arm behind his back.

Someone cried out. Nadir whipped his head left, stunned that the vizier had gasped in horror. 

The mob below began prying the largest stakes out, breaking the wood off and wielding them like clubs. And all at once, they brought their makeshift weapons down on the back of Erik’s right thigh, again and again until wood broke. Somewhere in the sound of wood on skin, Nadir knew he heard the break of bone.

“Kidney.”

The blows carried on, making their way to the magician's backside, each man shoving the other away so he could strike as well. If Erik screamed, his voice was lost to the men’s own cries. And somehow, he managed to wriggle away.

Erik rose on unsteady feet, stumbled, and fell, tumbling into dirt as another spike ran itself across his chest. Blood pooled beneath his side.

And Nadir could no longer watch. He turned to Darius, about to speak when he realized there was nothing he could do. The Sultana would not stop, even if he begged. And even had she listened- he looked again at the men around Erik, pulling at his bruised limbs like quicksand- this mob would not stop. The fire had been lit and they had no choice but to watch it burn.

“Collarbone.”

Nadir winced, the sound of another crack echoing through as Erik’s sternum snapped. 

“Left forearm.”

They pushed him into a bush of spikes, and as it sliced away the last bits of black, they grabbed his arm and pierced it along a pointed stake. Erik sagged, blood gushing as he struggled to stay upright, more stakes shredding at skin as he tried to pry his arm away. But he was pinned.

A wingless bird.

“Left kneecap.”

The daroga shut his eyes as Erik’s next cry entered his ears. 

“Ribcage.”

Nadir opened those eyes, willing them to his feet instead. He imagined ceramic breaking apart instead, a crumbling wall the only source of sound echoing through the silent air (and not the sound of Erik’s ribs coming apart, each bone breaking as their cage crumbled away).

When he looked back at the Sultana’s display, Erik was no longer trying to escape. He lay limp against a wheel of stakes, blood seeping from each open wound and his skin a canvas of blue and black, the spikes drawing more red as he sank down. His arm remained pinned to the upmost spike.

“Shall I end this game?” the Sultana said, “I don’t think you’re enjoying this very much, Erik. One word and I call the lion instead.”

Amber eyes finally looked up. 

“Erik, do as she says,” the Shah ordered, a note of panic in his tone, “you’ll die this way.”

The magician nodded.

Then he tore himself from that spike, wrenching his arm from sharpened wood as he allowed a roar of pain. But damaged legs could not keep him up. Erik fell, briefly stunning the crowd into moving back. He forced himself up by the elbows, as if beckoning that beating to go on. One man kicked him in the gut. Another followed. And another, until he was again surrounded by a wave of men.

“You’re a weaker fool than I thought!” the Sultana said, snapping her book shut, “you’ll watch that fellow die, I order you!”

But the crowd did not move, identical clothes swarming into one as their figures blanketed where Erik lay, the twitch of his bruised fingers the only sign that the magician lived among their assault.

“Leave him be!” she called to the crowd.

And Nadir’s worst prediction came true. They did not relent.

“I told you not to kill him!” she said, “he’s no longer standing. That’s all you had to do!”

A man- their ringleader, or the closest they had to one- looked to her, his hair mussed and cheeks scraped by spikes. Spots of blood colored his clothes, perhaps a blend of his own and Erik’s. He reached towards the ground and lifted the magician up, pulling him to his feet by that wounded arm. Erik’s head lolled, body limp as it prepared to again go down. More hands caught him from the other side.

“He’s still standing,” the man said bitterly.

Between their grips, Erik appeared a broken scarecrow, his sunken torso covered in bleeding scratches and clouding bruises. Blood dripped from his head down, meeting a stream by his collar and dipping into the wounds that welled on his chest and shoulder. Signs of cracked bone littered his body, itself nothing more than a pile of bleeding twigs.

To prove his point, their leader drove a fist into his stomach. Erik doubled over, and again, the crowd held him up. He coughed, sputtering wetly as more blows collided with his flesh, itself already breaking apart.

“Still standing,” he said again.

He shoved Erik forward, the magician falling into a knot of spikes, each tip slicing skin to bone. Erik lay limp, wedged between the protruding stakes.

“How dare you-” the Sultana said, “stop this-”

“Kill me if you wish, your highness!” the man snapped, “I do not care.”

He yanked Erik away from those spikes, roughly grasping him by the shoulders as he pushed him into yet another cluster of stakes. And again, the spikes left his flesh in shreds.

“I only care that this monster suffers for what he did!”

He pulled Erik forward again, ripping the battered mask and tossing it away. Shuddering at that bloodied face, he approached the bound coffin. Then he held Erik against another wheel of spikes, pressing his back to the tips behind. Blood trailed and pooled, gathering in clumps at Erik’s feet.

The Shah joined in the Sultana’s cries to stop. And as that man pressed Erik against another group of spikes, the daroga felt the nerves in his body run free. The Shah had turned to him next, but Nadir knew he acted before he heard the words- _“Daroga, stop this at once.”_

He remembered Erik crawling at the English camp, remembered his screeches at Abed’s death, remembered the way he clung at the funeral-

-And his eyes that now begged for death-

Nadir grabbed his pistol from Darius’ coat. The shot rang out, taking the ringleader’s ear with it. As he fell, the mob stepped back. And Nadir had leapt into the arena below, heart catching in his throat.

Erik had no intention of coming out alive.

He thought of the lamb and that light voice, _“Relax Daroga, it will only be one more death.”_

-And Nadir could not let one more death come about. He fell by Erik’s side, the magician soaked in the shadow of his own blood.

“Untie the lion!” the Sultana cried to her guards, “untie it and arrest these men!”

Erik swiped the pistol from Nadir’s hand, gritting teeth as the guards cut the lion free. He aimed at the cage, firing until the door came loose. Then, too weak to do more, he dropped the gun and twisted his torso as he reached for the rope he’d set. Erik pulled, collapsing into the coffin’s grip.

The wheels moved. And as the spikes rolled across his leg, Erik shut his eyes, flesh and bone shredding as his Butcher’s Wheel made its way up.

“You fool!”

Nadir yanked him away before the wheel could do more, trembling at the sight of Erik’s right leg, pink bone jutting out from parted flesh. In the chaos that followed, Nadir felt himself blinded to all else. He heard the guards clash with the faux soldiers, insults and cries exchanged. Then the roar of the lion followed-

The prisoner had managed to crawl away. 

And the beast escaped.

Nadir smashed the ground roughly, the wind knocked from his lungs as Erik pushed him away. The daroga regained enough sense to see the lion sink its teeth into Erik’s shoulder. In the second of pure panic that blinded him next, he groped for the pistol, unable to stop wondering why it had gone for someone as thin as Erik.

The blood.

He fired, hitting the lion in the shoulder. As it roared, he scrambled to where Erik lay, more of the Shah’s men coming to his aid. A net fell over the lion and as it thrashed, Nadir heard the Sultana speak.

“If you wish for that wretch to live so much, then beg, Erik!” she shrieked, as frenzied as the mass that had gathered under her gaze, “how dare you!? How dare you!?”

Again, the spectators looked to Erik, his eyes struggling to stay open as his tongue choked on blood. He coughed- and coughed- specks of red dusting out as he willed his lips to part.

 _“Please,”_ he managed to whisper.

“Louder!”

 _“Please,”_ he said, no louder than before, though the word now sounded more like rustling paper than garbled speech.

The Sultana gulped, glowering down at him. She prepared to speak again when Erik went limp, the shallow rise of his broken ribcage all that differed him from a damaged corpse. She delivered a barrage of curses at him, all words that fell silent to Nadir. 

As the guards herded the men away (and dragged the wounded lion out), he gathered Erik into his arms, propping the magician’s head against his chest. And cradling him, Nadir felt the blood soak his creamy robes, hot and sticky as Erik bled on. When he tasted salt, he realized he’d been weeping. Perhaps he had wept this whole time. And if he sobbed, he did not care if the rest of court saw.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, “I cannot let you die. Not like this.”

Would it have been more merciful? Would it have been better to let the magician go? He felt Erik’s blood seep into his skin. _I’m a coward and a hypocrite,_ he’d told Erik. It was true, for even now, he did not have the heart to let the magician go and he did not have the foresight to know it would come to this.

And as he cradled Erik, he wished- more than anything- that someone could cradle him too.

He did not know how long he sat holding the magician in his grip, only that he remained where he was when the Shah ordered his servants to take Erik away. His blood remained on Nadir and the ground beneath, red as dark as a man’s shadow. His blood remained on those wooden spikes, on the fists of the Sultana’s mob, in the teeth of that starving lion and the very air they breathed.

Erik had left him with a string of words before they removed him from Nadir’s lap. The daroga liked to believe he had said, “Stop crying, you great booby.” But he knew- that in his haze of pain- Erik said, more of a whimper than whisper:

_“Nadir, it hurts…”_

* * *

When the sun fell, the Sultana hopped into the arena herself, Erik’s blood all around. From the ground, she fetched his broken mask. She had half a mind to chop off that wretched prisoner’s head- if he had simply let the lion take its meal, it would not have come to this. And Erik would not have defied her to the end.

Before she went to bed that night, the Sultana held up Erik’s mask. And burned it to a crisp.

It was only a pity that Erik could not see.

* * *

There was nothing Darius could do for the daroga’s ruined robes, their color dyed red from the magician’s wounds. Nadir had yet to tell his servant to throw them out. He wanted to keep them as a reminder, as yet another reminder of how he’d failed Erik.

And if Erik died as well- after everything- Nadir was unsure what he would do. He could not stay apart from him any longer. It had been a mistake to admit he could, a mistake to admit that his heart did not bleed for Erik at every turn.

He had tried to pay Erik a visit once, at the room the Shah had installed him in. But the physician had kept him behind a screen and he would not allow Nadir to look. Of his injuries, the physician and his assistants said little, as if afraid the daroga would explode should the words not be to his liking. Their main concern was infection and hemorrhaging, both of which currently ailed Erik.

But he’d learned- however reluctantly- that the magician had a compound fracture in his leg. When (if) it healed, it was almost certain that Erik would limp for the rest of his years. This development, Nadir could not fathom. He could not think of Erik without the reflexes of a cat, without the lithe movements of a ghost. He heard and he nodded, but a part of him- however stupidly- refused to believe.

“May I see him now?” he’d asked.

“Not yet, Daroga, not yet.”

But when Nadir visited once more, the room was cleared. And Erik was gone. Fearing the worst, he ran out, determined to hunt the physician down if need be. Instead, Darius had grabbed his sleeve.

“Master, wait!”

“Let go of me!”

Darius blocked his path and said, out of breath, “I know where he is, Master, please calm down.”

His throat dry, Nadir asked, “Where? Darius, where!?”

For once, Darius seemed nervous. The servant swallowed and said, “The Sultana had him removed. I’m not sure where she’s keeping him-”

Nadir shook his man by the shoulders, tripping over words as he cried, “She took him!? She took him!?”

She would do him more injury, no doubt, and this time, Nadir could not stop it. But what else could she do to Erik? How else could she hurt him? What could she possibly want with him now? His thoughts crossed and burned, leaving him a mess of worry and rage as he pressed Darius for more answers.

“Master, allow me to finish.” Darius steadied the daroga’s grip. “I- listened around. I think I know where to find him, but you must trust me.”

“Darius, I trust no one but you.”

And he meant it. If there was anyone who could find his Erik, it was Darius, and Nadir had no choice but to trust the servant’s every word. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Comment/kudos are always welcome! On another note, do any of you think this fic needs to be tagged as "dark" fic? Sorry for the excessive Erik violence!
> 
> In case anyone's wondering, the lion will be OK. Erik, on the other hand... (but I do assure you that he'll have a better ending at the very end of this series, believe it or not)


End file.
